Marsheila Rockwell - Skein of Shadows

They followed the narrow ledge along the canyon wall, in some places having to inch along slowly with their backs pressed up against the sheer rock. Sabira couldn’t fathom how ir’Kethras was able to get supplies up this tortuous route. Breven had mentioned that the Wayfinder was a wizard; perhaps he teleported them from the oasis to the caravan? She certainly hoped so. She didn’t really want to have to make this trip twice.

The ledge finally widened out and joined the rising canyon floor. As they climbed upward, small patches of green scrub began to appear, nurtured by water from the nearby oasis. By the time they’d reached the plateau that housed the djinn’s settlement, they were greeted by massive trees older than Sabira and Greddark put together, their drooping green limbs dotted with white and purple flowers.

The path led them up behind one of the settlement’s large white stone and wood buildings. As they passed it on their right, Quilli told them it housed Masei’s Imports, which was actually an export business. Sabira imagined it wasn’t a particularly profitable one-in order to export products, you had to have things people actually wanted to buy. What could the owner possibly have to sell, other than sand, rocks, and an occasional scorpion stinger?

Another building on the left played home to a dwarf smith and her team of apprentices who made finely crafted weapons for those foolhardy enough to come to the desert without their own. Greddark perked up at the woman’s name.

“Forgemaiden? I knew a pair of sisters from that family back in the Holds. Hair like molten gold, arms like warhammers, legs-”

“I don’t really want to know what their legs were like, thanks,” Sabira said quickly, wrinkling her nose in distaste. Dwarven compliments ran the gamut from utilitarian to graphic and often included detailed descriptions of the exploits that had prompted the appreciative remarks in the first place. Not the mental image she wanted in her head when she met Brannan ir’Kethras for the first time. Or ever, really.

“I wonder if this Jaidene is a younger sister, or maybe a cousin. Come to think of it, the hilt on my blade is a little loose. Maybe-”

“You’d have better luck at the Watering Hole at this time of day,” Quilli interrupted with a salacious grin, pointing up ahead and to the left. “She’ll be taking breakfast there with her apprentices and the refugees. So the forge’ll be empty, if she decides to finish early and give you a look at her… warhammers.”

“Onatar’s branding iron, don’t encourage him!” Sabira swore at the halfling sailor, but Quilli just laughed.

Greddark quirked a bushy eyebrow at the two of them.

“I think I’m insulted. I assume we’ll be leaving at sundown. That’s not near enough time for a dwarf of my considerable knowledge to truly appreciate a good warhammer.” He harrumphed and stalked off in the direction Quilli had indicated. The two women followed him up a wooden ramp onto a stone patio that boasted a large bonfire and several long tables filled with people eating and talking quietly. A dark-skinned human woman in red dancer’s silks greeted them warmly as they entered the outdoor tavern.

“Hello, travelers. My name is Oh’tula.”

She gestured to the end of one table where three spots were just opening up as an old human couple followed another red-garbed woman toward some wagons clustered not too far away. As they took the newly-vacated seats, a yellow-eyed warforged came up to them.

“The name’s Raff. I run this little watering hole. Can I get you something?”

Greddark opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again as he caught sight of something just beyond the warforged. Sabira, who was sitting across from the dwarf, turned to look at what had caught the inquisitive’s attention. It was another dwarf-a woman, with long blonde hair flowing free except for a single braid over each ear and thickly muscled arms adorned with wide gold bands. Jaidene Forgemaiden, she presumed.

As Sabira turned back, Greddark was rising. He returned Sabira’s dark look with a shrug.

“What? The hilt really is loose.”

Then he looked up at Raff with a hopeful expression.

“Tell me you have tea, and I may never leave.”

As Greddark sipped his sweet mint tea and plied his countrywoman with news of their homeland in exchange for information on the desert, Sabira sampled cactus sap and boiled scorpion and waited for ir’Kethras to arrive. Having fought many of her breakfast’s larger brethren in the islands north of Stormreach, Sabira was somewhat dubious about trying the desert delicacy, but she found that the meat inside the hard carapace was actually both tender and flavorful. The sap, on the other hand, was thick and oily and left her wanting to go drink from the oasis.

“In the desert, water is a kiss.”

Startled, Sabira looked up to see yet another dwarf standing in front of her, this one with an odd spiraling tattoo that started up on his forehead, curved down across his right eyelid and continued on to his cheek. There, the swirling design almost disappeared into a thick brown beard that was plaited into two heavy braids, both of which were free of adornment. He wore a blue shirt, brown vest and green pants and boasted a painful-looking sunburn across every exposed inch of flesh.

“Wayfinder Skavyr,” he said by way of introduction, understandably not offering her one of his very red hands. He nodded at the halfling. “Quilli. You and your tart tongue can run back to Kup now. I’ll take responsibility for your ‘guests’ for the nonce.”

Quilli snorted, clearly not liking being dismissed, but liking her job of nursemaid to Sabira and Greddark even less.

“You just make sure Zawabi knows that,” the sailor said warningly as she stood. “After what happened last time-”

“Is that old rust-bucket still complaining about that? Brannan paid him for his losses. I don’t know what he’s so worried about, anyway. What’s Zawabi really going to do from inside that circle? The djinn needs Kup as much as Kup needs him-who else is going to ferry fighters out to this Forge-forsaken place to do his bidding, if not the Wayfinders?”

Quilli’s expression hardened and she crossed her arms in front of her chest, waiting. Still seated at the table, Sabira had a lower vantage point, and she could see what the dwarf couldn’t-the halfling’s fingers twitching toward the dagger she wore on her belt.

Skavyr heaved a long-suffering sigh.

“Fine. I’ll make sure the djinn knows. Happy now?”

Quilli’s fingers relaxed, as did Sabira. She wasn’t sure what she’d have done if the sailor and the Wayfinder had come to blows. She had a feeling Zawabi wouldn’t consider his refuge to be part of her jurisdiction as a Sentinel Marshal, and she didn’t think she could argue the point. Nor did she know which Wayfinder it behooved her to ally with-Kupper-Nickel or Brannan. Brannan could take her to Tilde, but Kupper-Nickel was the only one who could get her home again afterward. Then again, there was a better than fair chance she wouldn’t make it that far, so she should probably put her money on Brannan.

“Fair winds and following seas,” Quilli said to her, touching the brim of her hat briefly before taking her leave of them.

Skavyr slid into the halfling’s seat across from Sabira.

“ Sarrgh,” he muttered under his breath, and Sabira blinked at the insult.

“I think it’s rather unlikely that her father was a manticore, considering her lack of facial hair,” she remarked. “Her mother could have been an orc, I suppose-I’d have guessed a kobold, myself.”

Skavyr looked at her in shock for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed. His great, throaty guffaws rang off the rocks, echoing through the canyon settlement. Judging from the surprised looks he got in response, the Wayfinder wasn’t normally prone to mirth. And given the way his laughter trailed off into hoarse coughing, that was probably a good thing.